


The little ones give back

by shledzguohn



Category: Journey (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shledzguohn/pseuds/shledzguohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the same immutable story played out a thousand times before, both in the past and the present. But everything's original to someone once, and their ending has not yet been written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The little ones give back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephalopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/gifts).



> I'm sorry this is like the complete opposite of the story you asked for...! I probably shouldn't have offered the fandom having never tried long-form Journey fic before. ... And not having actually written fic in ages and ages, wow look at those sections double in length, all I want from Santa is consistency in my writing. ... This was my first year and a pretty bad idea in general it seems so I'm sorry you got stuck with me as a writer aha aha sob. Hope you have a wonderful holiday... despite this!

It's cool down here, chilled by hues of blues and greens and an eternity's worth of protection from the elements. The redcloak stands in a shaft of illumination and follows the gauzy haze up to the misshapen crack in the ceiling. Like the light itself has its own journey to overcome, and its reward of a destination is brightening up a musing redcloak's face.

They move back into the shade cast by ruined structures of metal and stone, and light fills in the space on the sand as if it had never left. Of course. Light beams and shadow falls regardless of whether one is there to feel its warmth or bite. So it goes.

The redcloak approaches a stone largely buried in sand; the small surface peeking through sprouts four thin ribbons many times their height. Scarf and ribbon mirror each other upon approach, the latter revealing hidden symbols embroidered in light to match the trimmings on their cloak. Resisting the cloth's inclination to send them buoyantly floating weightless along its length, they inspect the root where smooth red meets textured grey.

Countless journeyers before them have walked this path, and they wonder how many of those have taken pause to closely examine these lengths of cloth so like their own. How many have simply passed through this room on their busy way, gathered its symbol to lengthen their scarf, and continued on without a thought.

They take note of each individual symbol along the ribbon's length, none identical to another, nor to their own. How many journeyers have been restored by this single cloth among the dozens found in this room alone? How many generations has it been left to grow down in this chilled cavern? The redcloak runs a cloaked hand down the gilted edge to its root. They give a silent word of gratitude for all the ribbon has done...

And they pluck it, right off the stone.

\---

The redcloak rose from their place on the desert sands. The lone marked dune encompassed their entire view, dark markers jutting from its pale peak as if calling loudly for attention.

The very first thing the redcloak did was turn around entirely and attempt to climb the opposite dune.

When their efforts were met with gusting winds with enough force to topple them head over feet back into the sands, they simply chirped with mirth -- then chirped again louder, their voice ringing clearer, thrilled with this new discovery. They chirped to themselves all the way up to the top of the marked dune.

From a realm unseen, an Ancestor shook Their head in silent amusement at this young one. The redcloak would end up feeling the gentle guiding push of Their breath another half-dozen times more before even their first confluence.

\---

A traveller bounds into the cavern with direction and purpose. Their well-decorated trimmings brighten the area as they dart out of the tunnel before their scarf has the chance to grow to its full extent. The next is on top of the highest round creature of the next room, they think to themselves, running down a mental checklist, and then one behind a wall down the hallway of the war machines. Since they managed to nab that elusive one in the sliding sands, the only one left with uncertainty must be somewhere in the tower.

The traveller chirrups, hands posed at their middle with a smug satisfaction. Once they managed that, they too could wear the cloak of white that signified wisdom and respect. They glance to their own cloth with irritation. A redcloak emblazoned with ovals only drew snickers from fellow journeyers, they were sure of it. Laughter behind their back at the ignorance of one with such experience, and yet still lacking in knowledge. This was their chance to prov--

From their vantage point, the traveller spots the warm white glow from the corner of their eye that tells of a fellow nearby journeyer. Surprised that they had yet to encounter each other, they briefly weigh the pros and cons of taking the time to look for the other before shrugging and drifting down from the elevated tunnel to the cavern floor.

The last thing they expect to find is a neophyte redcloak perched sitting on a stump of rock with four lengths of red ribbon laid out on the ground in front of them.

The traveller blinks. The ribbon seem to be identical in form and function to the rest of those attached to the stone around them in this area, and in fact if they think about it, they half-recall seeing some thin cloths like these on previous journeys, arising from the same bare spot where the redcloak sits now. Did they do that? The traveller didn't even know they _could_ do that. _Why_ would they do that?

Though there is certainly no way the redcloak could have missed the traveller's presence by now, they have yet to offer a customary chirp of greeting to their clear superior, or to even glance up from... whatever it is they're doing with those ribbons. The traveller deigns it upon themselves to prompt the other with the first chirp, a clear, sharp call of moderate length.

 _Cheep._ Barely an acknowledgement. Barely anything at all. The redcloak continues layering strip over strip of cloth, folding one carefully over the other to... well, to some end, they presume.

The traveller flutters in place, then glances to the other's stub of a scarf. Aha, there was still room to prove themselves. They flit back up to the tunnel they had just left, and call loudly from the remnants of gold sparks circling the area. Certainly understandable if a beginner had managed to miss it, no judgement passed. _Chirrup!_ Come with them and they could lead to even more! Just... follow them?

 _Cheep._ No, thank you. The layered ribbons glimmer with symbols in response to the sound, lighting up the half-complete crosshatched craft in zigzags of illumination. The redcloak continues to pay the other no mind.

Well. Fine, then. They shoot a narrowed glare to the figure below, then hop from the tunnel to the platform of the gateway with ease. A redcloak who skimped over the most obvious symbols was no redcloak they wanted to associate with. No reason to bother with journeyers lacking ambition.

The traveller takes one last look at the cavern of tunnels and ribbons before moving forward. That was the whole point, after all.

\---

From the moment they hit the ground, the redcloak let out a bellowing whoop of a chirp, narrowly missing running face-first into a gatepost. They could barely make out their companion's calls from behind them, and chirped again to tease them to catch up. Across slopes and through gritty sand-falls, they danced among the carpet sand-swimmers, leaping over stone walls and entire bridges with ease. Down, down they slid through the narrow gateway, under a thin sand-fall, emerging from a height with a gleeful shout.

Behind them, their companion silently drifted right to capture the lofted symbol before alighting to the ground with composure. Meanwhile, the redcloak continued to babble on about what an amazing ride that was, and how the wind felt as it puffed up their cloak and threw back their scarf, and the only disappointment was in how short it lasted. The companion answered back with some amusement of their own, simultaneously moving to unlock the scarf-minnow in hopes of showing their friend how the route continued. When the redcloak shouted ecstatically even at the appearance of the multitude of scraps, the other couldn't help but join in sincerely. For someone with only one more line of trimming than their friend, the companion mused that perhaps they had already grown unfortunately cynical of the wonder of the journey. It was good to have someone along to remind them of how things were when they were new to discover.

With that in mind, the companion soared up to the platform of the wall, but paused for the redcloak to meet them and take a breather before moving on. As they learned the value of surprise from the younger, so they would try to instil the value of solemnity. They sat crosslegged facing forward, and after some fidgeting, the redcloak joined them.

A ruined bridge took up the forefront of their scenic view, but the companion gestured out for them to observe the sides of the path as well. A bridge, after all, was constructed not as a formation in and of itself, but with the purpose of connecting two places of importance. The redcloak observed the skylines, the myriad of separate buildings from either side -- and something began to click. They nodded slowly in comprehension.

They moved to follow their companion as they walked gently off the platform to the very side, cloak hugging the wall as they descended. This way the pair was not yet quite under the pull of the shifting sands ahead. The companion stood in front of one side of the latticed interstice of the great wall before them, and the redcloak examined it closely. Walls too, the companion conveyed, were built with purpose: to keep some outside, and others in. To declare an 'us' and a 'them', and crack the fissure between the two even wider.

The bridge is in shambles, yet the wall would appear untouched, they continued. The redcloak lifted their head and looked their companion in the eye. What, then, does that say of Those who came before?

The question lingered in the air like the remnants of a gathered symbol, before the companion shrugged and stepped into sunlit sands to be whisked away. The redcloak was quick to follow, but the slide felt as if they were weighed down. Where before they saw targets and obstacles, they now viewed time-forgotten gates (to where? between whom?), and sharp angles of rock cresting out from the earth could not easily be placed as natural formation or induced destruction. The sand-swimmers remained, seemingly timeless embodiments of energy and perseverance, and their chirps and whistles made the redcloak wonder what they would hear, if only they knew how to listen.

Pillars, colonnades, archways and balustrades all stood as if they were little more than decoration, a distraction against the overwhelming colossus of the mountain beyond. The redcloak stared into the sunken city, their eyes trying to follow miles and milleniums in mere seconds. At that moment, to that journeyer, it was the mountain that posed the distraction to the city. Someones had _built_ that. Someones -- the redcloak recalled the tale of the previous Ancestor stone, They who came before -- had conceived of each structure, planned every architectural element, and brought it all to life. Despite its luring call, the mountain was a force of nature, cold and implacable. The city (the glyphs the towers the gateways the bridges the _graves_ ) was entirely _designed_.

At the end of the great hall, without either initiating, the pair took a moment to pause. Blinded by the sun setting behind the mountain ahead of them, they each gazed to their right, reflecting one last time upon the great and terrible fallen city.

It was destroyed, the companion lamented.

It was created, the redcloak marvelled.

\---

They get it now, they think. Not all of it. But some.

They're just a redcloak. A rookie redcloak, no experience, barely a trimming of gold to their name. They couldn't tell you exactly what lies ahead of them, and they'll probably never comprehend just what happened in that past left behind. But there's a difference between now and then, they figure.

Today, everyone they've met has been entirely passive. The travellers, even the kindest of them, are lulled into a sort of contempting familiarity, where their experience with their eventual fate means there are no more surprises, no more point in curiosity, no more discovery. Journeyers travel from desert to mountaintop like each grain in a sand-fall and just as plentiful, and all they can do is experience and observe.

In the past, they _created_. They who came before imagined, and became inspired, and had the ability to bring something _new_ into existence.

If today's journeyers tried, the redcloak believes that together, they could do more than just read the history of a fallen world. They could restore it, and make it their own.

  
  
Near the end of a darkened hall, a traveller freezes from their triumph in locating another symbol to stare wide-eyed at a neophyte redcloak waving from atop a hodgepodge patchwork of pulled-together cavern ribbons, with their legs swinging off the side and true delight in their eyes. The carpet lowers to the traveller's height, and the redcloak offers a hand to join them.

They hesitate. Yet with a small rekindled warmth of curiosity, they take their hand.


End file.
